


The Guard, the Axe, and the Song

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [31]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bifur's Axe Injury, Gen, Pre-Quest of Erebor, Yavannah loves her husband's children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 10:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10592157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: The Story of Bifur.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Littlenori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlenori/gifts).



> This is pretty much my headcanon for Bifur, as the core is the small collection of snippets I had written down for his character turned into a somewhat cohesive story.
> 
>  
> 
> notes on the time,
> 
> Thrór went to Moria and died in 2790.
> 
> War of Dwarrow against Orcs begins in 2793 and lasts 6 years, culminating in the massive pyrrhic victory of Azanulbizar in 2799.
> 
> This story mostly takes place in 2861, which is just under two years before the death of Víli - the father of Fíli and Kíli. Bifur is 78.

At only ten years of age, Bifur, son of Bilbur, was old enough to understand what ‘going to war’ meant. When his father and uncle left to fight in the War against Orcs, however, Bifur did not understand that it would eventually mean the destruction of his small family. His uncle Bjartur came back – sans one leg – but his Adad did not follow. Bombur, who had lived with him and Amad while his own Amad went off to fight in the war too, got a wartime baby brother. Aunt Moda had been sent home when her superiors discovered her pregnancy; little cousin Bofur was born about a year before the terrible battle that claimed Bilbur’s life and his Adad’s leg.

 

After the war, their small mining settlement swelled with the refugees of Erebor; where before, the settlement had only been the home of the miners who worked in the coal and copper mines that still yielded ore, it now grew to ten times the size, as more and more displaced Longbeards, Firebeards and Broadbeams trickled in. Life under the King was very different to life under the old Lord Overseer, though that was mostly because of the sudden influx of people. The mines yielded as little as usual, and many Dwarrow found themselves needing new – basic – crafts; goldsmiths became blacksmiths, wire weavers produced cloth instead of finely woven mesh, and potters no longer made china so thin it was almost transparent, painted with delicate motives, instead turning their hands to the shaping of everyday cups and plates.

 

* * *

 

 

Six years later, Amad died. When he grew up, Bifur would realise that the loss of her One had caused his Amad to die of a broken heart, even more than the pneumonia that eventually claimed her life, but at the time, all he knew was that he was suddenly an orphan.

 

* * *

 

 

Living with Aunt Moda and Uncle Bjartur wasn’t too bad, in Bifur’s opinion; they were always a close family, and treated him well. He liked playing with his little cousins – Bombur was only two years younger than him, and they usually felt more like brothers than cousins – and even though Bjartur’s battle scars were not limited to the leg that the Orcs had hacked off, life in the Ur-household was usually peaceful. Bifur did not blame Bjartur for the nights when his Uncle woke screaming, or the days when he saw Orcs lurking around every corner. When he joined training for a position in the Guards, Bjartur had cried like a proud Adad, and Moda had brought him a treat every week like clockwork while he lived in the barracks, just like any of the others’ Amads.

 

In Guard-training, Bifur had made new friends; while he wasn’t the most popular recruit around, he was generally well-liked. He was especially fond of Dwalin – an Azanulbizar veteran and a cousin to the new King! – who had recommended him as a caravan guard when he finished his training. Eager to see some of the world, Bifur had accepted, a few years later even finding work for his younger cousin Bombur as a cook for one of Master Gróin’s trading caravans. He did not get to travel with Dwalin on every job, but often enough to keep their friendship solid; deep enough for Bifur to be the one Dwalin unloaded his worries unto when his unsettled relationship with Thorin grew too thorny in his head. Slowly, Bifur built himself a reputation as a reliable and brave guard, trustworthy and capable of ensuring the safe arrival of any type of cargo. As they travelled, Bifur would often find himself whittling to pass the night, he preferred listening to the songs and stories told around the campfire rather than participating, but his companions usually left him be when he stared pensively into the fire; between his hands, fantastic animals took shape, eagles, rabbits, horses or whatever else took his fancy. Selling the small toys in the towns they passed brought Bifur a nice little bonus, as well as the joy of putting a smile on the faces of the children who often did not have many toys to play with. Bifur had often wondered if he would ever find someone with whom to have children, but he had never felt even a hint of the Longing, so he counted himself among those who did not have a One waiting somewhere in the world. He watched his friends fall in love, counselled them when their efforts seemed in vain, and he felt a small twinge of jealousy, but it was only a sense of wistful longing. Bifur had – though he had tumbled with his fair share of lads and lasses over the years – never felt in love with anyone.

 

* * *

 

The morning of what would later be considered the last day of his life _before,_ Bifur woke like usual, ate his breakfast like usual, saw Bofur off to the mines like usual, and went to work his shift on the guard-rota – also as usual. When he was not out with the caravans, he worked for the City Guard, which did not pay as much, but was generally less risky than protecting shipments of silver or fine fur while travelling across Arda. In truth, most of the day went as it usually did, patrolling Shale Street and Granite Row, going up through Carnelian Street and back down Quartz Corner back towards Shale Street. As he walked the beat, he greeted those who greeted him, enjoying the peace of winter-time in Thorinuldûm.

The first sign that this day would change his life was a shout.

“Thief!” someone cried up ahead, “Stop him!”

Bofur set off running along with Boril, his patrol-partner for the day, and joined by a couple of the newer recruits who had been patrolling nearby streets. The thieves – no one Bifur recognised, blonde braids flashing around a corner and a black-haired Dwarf behind the blonde – were slowly losing their advantage; swiftly pursued by the axe-wielding spice merchant they had robbed. Later, he’d realise how inexperienced they were, and curse his luck, but in the middle of the hot pursuit he did not care that they were so easily cornered. The merchant got there first, but it would have been a straightforward arrest if the temperamental Blacklock had not decided to exact his vengeance rather than let the guard mete out justice.

“Please, Master merchant, your goods’ll be returned to you and the thieves will face the King’s justice,” Bifur said, trying to calm down the irate merchant, who was attempting to get past him with the axe that he wanted to use to cut the braids off the two youths who were cowering in the corner of the alley, already expertly tied up by Boril and under the watchful eyes of the two recruits.

“What’d you steal,” Boril asked.

Eyeing the merchant warily, the blonde thief – obviously fairly young, the dark-haired being the older of the pair – said, “Cardamom and cinnamon, milord,” Bifur sighed. Spices were expensive of course, he had been a part of more than one caravan bringing them up from the south, Gondor and even Harad, but the theft was hardly worth the merchant’s unbridled fury.

“I will have to ask you to calm down, merchant…” Bifur trailed off, realising that he did not have a name for the Blacklock Dwarf. Turning his head to look at the two hapless thieves, Bifur kept his arms stretched out to stop the enraged merchant passing him. The young recruit screaming, while beside him, the blonde thief was gaping incredulously was the last sight he saw before everything went black.

 

* * *

 

 

When Boril had subdued the Blacklock merchant, he sent one of the recruits as a runner to fetch a healer for Bifur, before turning to the two young would-be thieves.

“If you help me get him,” he gestured to the bound and gagged merchant, “back to the guardhouse immediately, I think the Shumrozbid could be convinced to let you off with a warning for the stealing. Deal?” the dark-haired one nodded, elbowing his blonde compatriot, who had taken one look at Bifur’s gory wound and was then violently ill in the corner. Boril nodded. With quick moves, he untied the two thieves, letting them take position at either side of the murderous merchant while the last recruit – who gave his name as Bragni – took the rear guard, his short sword aimed at the merchant’s kidneys in case the Dwarf got any ideas about running. Boril himself picked up Bifur, getting the shock of his life. “He’s still alive!” he gasped, before taking up running down the short street towards the intersection with Shale Street where a Healer had his residence. “Tell Dwalin I’ve gone to Healer Dufa!” was the last words he tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared around a corner. Grim-faced, recruit Bragni and his temporary deputies began the task of herding the arrested merchant back to the guardhouse on Granite Way.

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin, upon hearing the breathless report from the first recruit, whose name he didn’t catch, wasted no time in getting to his feet and running towards the practise of his cousin, Óin. As he moved swiftly through the streets, he sent off a small dwarfling to fetch Bofur from the mines, with the message that his cousin was dying.

 

* * *

 

 

Bofur was at work, when the Foreman – his Grandfather’s brother – came running. He’d been teamed up with Víli, who was a good friend of his, even if he’d gone and become a nob by marrying the Princess, and they both dropped their tools at once.

 

* * *

 

 

Dufa considered herself a decent healer, familiar with all the various crush injuries related to the dangerous work of mining for coal and copper in unstable mountains. When she opened the door to the frantic knocking of the Guardsdwarf, however, she saw something she would never have believed possible if the proof wasn’t breathing in front of her. The Guardsdwarf’s friend had an axe lodged in his head… but he was still alive!

 

* * *

 

 

Bursting into Óin’s surgery without so much as a knock, Dwalin simply grabbed his cousin – who had been examining a swollen ankle, it seemed and was hardly busy – and ran back out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s as good as dead. There’s nothing I can do.” Dufa did not want to extinguish the hope in the eyes of the two grimy miners who had joined the Guardsdwarf while she examined the injury carefully, but she did not want to offer them false hope. “I can’t remove the axe without killing him, and, if I’m honest, I don’t understand how it didn’t kill him already.”

 

* * *

 

After his examination, Óin said pretty much the same. “However,” he said, when his cousin opened his mouth to protest, and not wanting to be the reason for Dwalin losing his closest friend. “We can remove parts of the axe… make it lighter. As long as Bifur keeps holding on to life, there is hope. I agree with Healer Dufa that we cannot pull it out, it is lodged too deeply. We would do more damage pulling it out than it has already done.” Pulling out his toolkit, which Dwalin had apparently managed to grab in his mad dash through the surgery, Óin carefully began removing all visible splinters of bone from the wound.

 

* * *

 

 

“King’s Court in emergency session on this day, the 15th of ‘Afdush, in the year 2861 of the Third Age of the Sun is now called to order.” Thorin bellowed, his voice carrying loudly over the heads of the enraged Dwarrow milling about the King’s Hall. “Voice for the Accusation, step forwards and present yourself.”

“My King, I, Dwalin Fundinul, Shumrozbid-ugjaj[1] of Thorinuldûm, do speak for the Accusation.”

“The Crown recognises Dwalin Fundinul as the Voice of Accusation.” Thorin waved to the Dwarf on the other side of the room, while Balin made note of the Acceptance at his scrivener’s post. “Voice of the Accused, step forwards and present yourself.”

“My King, I, Varna, daughter of Yngva, was assigned to be the Voice of the Accused, but he refused my services,” an elderly dwarrowdam said, bowing once in Thorin’s direction before returning to her seat.

“Who, then, will speak for the Accused?” Thorin asked.

“I will speak for myself, King Thorin,” the Dwarf in chains sneered. “I am Harval, son of Humli, of the line of Hrodulf Snake-eye, nephew and Heir to Lord Roaldi of the Blacklocks of Orocarni.” Sharing a look with Balin, Thorin managed to contain his sigh; this case had just gotten complicated. He did not let the possible ramifications stop him from going forwards with the trial.

“Voice of the Accusation, you may approach and state your case.” He said, knowing that his obvious refusal to act like Harval had probably expected and throw the whole trial away, would be considered a slight. He’d have to send a raven to Lord Roaldi later. Dwalin easily commanded the floor.

“The Accused is facing trial on the charges of attempted vigilante justice, interfering with the Guard in pursuit of their duties, brawling in the streets, as well as the attempted murder of Guardsman Bifur, son of Bilbur, while Guardsman Bifur was in pursuit of his duty, viz a viz recovering Master Harval’s stolen property.” The loud uproar in the room as the final charge was stated almost deafened Thorin.

“How do you plead to the charge of attempted vigilante justice?” Thorin asked, looking straight at the arrogant Blacklock, who seemed to think his name alone should guarantee his release.

“Not guilty. It’s not a crime to hack off a few braids. That thief should be glad I didn’t get to take his hand!” Harval shouted.

“How do you plead to the charge of interfering with the Guard in pursuit of their duties?” Thorin asked calmly. He was not surprised by another answer of ‘Not guilty’. “How do you plead to the charge of brawling in the street?”

“Guilty, I did fight, but only because your Guards were doing such a pitiful job!” Thorin wanted to pinch his nose, beyond certain that Harval would – at the very least – give him a massive headache by the end of this trial, not to mention the diplomatic mess his actions had caused.

“How do you plead to the charge of attempted murder of Guardsman Bifur, son of Bilbur?”

“Not guilty. If I’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead!” Harval sneered. Thorin blanched. How could any Dwarf sound happy about having nearly killed another Dwarf – only by the grace of Mahal and Yavannah did Bifur still draw breath, and none of the Healers who had examined the Dwarf with Master Harval’s axe embedded in his skull could say if he’d ever wake up. The uproar this time was even louder.

“Dûm takt!” Thorin shouted, and eventually the crowd fell silent again.

“Voice of the Accusation, present your witnesses.”

The trial continued.

 

* * *

 

 

Elsewhere, Bifur was existing in the darkness. He did not know how he knew he was awake, considering that no part of his body seemed to respond to his commands. He did not know why the lack of movement did not frighten him, but he felt overall quite calm. Somehow, the darkness was amused.

“Anyone here?” he tried to ask, though no sound passed his lips.

 _I am here, Child,_ a Voice answered.

“Am I…dead?” Bifur did not quite know whether he wanted to hear the answer to the question, but it made him no less confused to hear it.

 _Not yet… not quite dead, but not quite living._ Bifur would have sworn the Voice was laughing. _That choice is yet before you, Child Beloved by Stone._

“Choice?” Bifur had never heard that the dead could _choose_ whether they died or not, and for a brief moment, he felt a stab of pure rage against his Amad for choosing to leave him so many years ago.

 _For you, there is a Choice, Child Beloved by the Mother._ The Voice remained on the cusp of laughter, but Bifur could hear His absolute honesty in every syllable.

“Why?” Bifur wondered if asking the question was a mistake when the Voice did not reply. Just as he began cursing himself for a fool, loud laughter sounded in the darkness.

_I can see why She liked you, Child._

“Who is this ‘She?’” the Voice had not punished him for his earlier question, so Bifur dared ask his Maker another. He was absolutely certain he was in fact speaking to the Father of all Dwarrow, the Voice of Mahal echoing in his bones.

_The Mother of Stone. Her warmth shelters my Children when they are cold, Her beauty brings my Children joy when they are sad, and Her Voice soothes my Children when they are afraid._

“But why does that mean I am not quite dead nor alive?”

_I love all my Children, Ugrurûbdag, but some of them are special to the Stone, and some your adopted Mother takes to Her heart so strongly that She cannot bear to see them wilt before their time. And some… some are blessed with the love of both their Mothers, and they are the most loved of all my Children._

“Yavannah loves me?” Bifur felt confused. Even with all the sagas and legends he had heard about the Wife of Mahal, the Queen of the Earth, the Bringer of Life, he had never heard that she held any particular fondness for her husband’s Children.

 _I do,_ a different Voice said, sweeter and gentler than the Maker’s, with a certain musicality to it. _You are one I have touched as you lay in my husband’s forge._ Bifur felt inexplicably warmed by the strength of Her smile as he could almost see Her beautiful face before his eyes. _My gift is the Choice._

_It was not your time to join my Guard, Bifur, son of Bilbur, but the Choice is yours. Remember, Child, that every Choice carries a consequence._

 

The last thing he heard, before he woke to a world of white-hot agony, was a gentle Voice, different from the others, and much fainter, saying, _wake up, my Child, listen to my Voice, and wake up._

 

That Voice, he would slowly come to realise, was the Voice of the Stone Mother, who sang in his dreams.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the pain of the axe was simply a memory, and Bifur felt truly awake for the first time in a very long time, he found that his tongue would no longer shape the once-familiar syllables of Khuzdul. Instead, his mouth would only speak in words that his family did not understand. In a final act of desperation, Bofur brought his gibberish-speaking cousin to the Singers of the Way, wanting them to try to commune with Mahal to find the answer to Bifur’s problem. Instead, Bifur finally found people who could speak to him – there were only Master Singer Melka and her apprentice Oluva – and discovered the full consequences of his Choice.

 

 _All Gifts have a Price, Child,_ sang the Voice of the Mountain, _you will never speak the words of the Children of Mahal again, but you will Sing._

 

 

The first Cantor Ered Luin had heard since the Breaking was born.

 

 

[1] Leadership-follower (basically assistant commander)

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know there's only five stories with the tag Bifur's Axe Injury :O


End file.
